


Old Flames, New Fires

by BeautifulFiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Jealous John Watson, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22334401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: When a client grabs Sherlock's attention, John struggles to control his pointless jealousy, but is everything really as it seems?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 99
Kudos: 650





	Old Flames, New Fires

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Былое увлечение, новая любовь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23232799) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



Normally, John was fairly easy-going, but this? This was different. This was Sherlock. 

Sherlock, who never spared anyone a second glance. Yet, for some reason, he was watching their client with that look in his eyes: fascination and intrigue, as if he had stumbled upon a fabulous puzzle. Except it was more than that. There was a heat there, a wanting that John had seen before, years ago and a handful of miles across London. 

Sherlock had looked at him like that once, at the beginning. It was the same look that had made him ask if Sherlock had a girlfriend. The same look that kept him coming back, even when it made more sense to walk away. 

Irene Adler was the last one to inspire a similar fascination. Except that had been her playing her games, more than anything else. Sherlock went along with it, but it had all been a bit artful. 

John had been jealous then, too. Hard not to be, when everything about Irene screamed sex. Now, he wished she would strut through the door: anything to distract Sherlock from the charismatic pillock currently preening in the middle of their flat. 

‘Coffee, Mister…?’ John bit out, his smile tight-lipped. It was the best he could manage. He shouldn’t snarl at paying clients, no matter how much he wanted to. 

‘Oh, it’s Cox. David Cox, and no thanks to coffee. I’m good.’ He barely glanced at John, as if he couldn’t bear to rip his eyes away from Sherlock. Not that he’d be the first client to act moonstruck. That, at least, was part of the script. 

Sherlock was the one who had stepped out of his role. Normally, he did not give people a chance to draw breath before he told them their own problems – the ones they knew and the ones they didn’t. Nine times out of ten, they were discarded a moment later: boring. 

David, it seemed, didn’t count as boring. Posh suit. Shiny shoes. Blond hair with just a touch of wave in it. Young, too. Younger than John, anyway, who felt about a hundred years old: lumpy, beige and fucking awful, all because Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off David Cox. 

David Cock more like. 

‘Fine, I’ll get one for myself then. Give you two some privacy.’ 

He clattered about the kitchen, abusing the crockery and letting its sharp complaints speak for him. The kettle rumbled and the cutlery rattled in the drawer as he rummaged for a teaspoon. Instant coffee hissed into the mug, adding its sibilant curses to his foul mood. 

It wasn’t like he had any right to be jealous. There was nothing between him and Sherlock. Despite all they’d been through and what everyone else thought, they were still just flatmates and friends. 

‘Wrong.’ 

John froze, the spoon lax in his hand. He cocked his head, trying to pick out what was being said only a short distance away. Sherlock hadn’t been loud, but his voice tended to carry. That, or maybe John was more attuned to him than he cared to admit. 

Abandoning his coffee, he inched towards the door. He’d left it open a fraction, and now he hovered at the threshold, barely breathing as Sherlock continued. 

‘You don’t have the money. That suit wasn’t made for you. Your cufflinks are fake: glass and steel, not diamonds and platinum. Your handshake’s lacking strength due to a wrenched shoulder: an injury, but not one acquired on the squash court. Someone twisted your arm, hard. You’re deep in debt and desperate. You’ve already fenced your mother’s jewels. You stole them yourself.’ 

A rush of air and whispering fabric suggested David had leapt to his feet. John didn’t even hesitate; he was through the door in a heartbeat, his back straight and his arms folded across his chest. Military training had his weight shifted forward, ready to join the fray if needed. 

A sneer mutilated David’s handsome face. He looked at John as if he were nothing, one eyebrow lifting as he shot a glance in Sherlock’s direction. 

‘What’s this? Your bodyguard?’ 

‘My flatmate.’ Sherlock had not moved from where he sat, his fingers steepled in front of him as he surveyed David. John could not see more than a sliver of his profile, but he would bet a month’s pay that none of this had caused a glimmer of surprise. 

‘Oh?’ David pouted, but there was something cruel in his flirtation. ‘Like you and I were “flatmates?”’ 

Sherlock tilted his head, and John caught the hint of apology in that mercurial gaze. ‘No. He’s far better at it than you ever were.’ 

John smirked, shifting his weight to add a hint of swagger to his stance. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who could sham when he needed to, and from the look on David’s face, he believed the insinuation. 

Rage made him ugly, wiping away the last hints of charm. His hands twisted into fists, rings gleaming on his fingers. White teeth clenched behind the pull of his lips, and John could see every vile insult glowing in his eyes. 

David whirled, slamming out of the flat and stamping down the stairs. The brass knocker clattered its farewell as he hauled the door shut, the walls shaking with the force of it. 

The feel of the room changed. No longer did the air hum, tight as a violin string. John had thought it was desire that pulled the atmosphere taut – maybe it was: a longing for what had once been, rather than what the future could hold. 

John had read it all wrong, and he could kick himself for being such a prat. 

‘You all right?’ 

Sherlock’s shoulders softened, easing from their rigid line with every passing moment. He had risen from his chair to watch David’s departure. Now, he stepped away from the window, letting the curtain fall. ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’ 

John rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I dunno. Old flame asking for a favour? That’s enough to put anyone on the back foot.’ 

‘Insurance fraud is a bit more than a favour.’ Sherlock sighed. ‘Remarkable, the ways he’s changed. And the ways he hasn’t.’ 

‘Was he actually your flatmate?’ 

‘Yes. Years ago. When I was in my twenties.’ 

John grimaced, knowing it would be better – safer – to leave it at that. Sherlock’s past was his own, and he had no right to the details. Yet one thought bothered him, buzzing around his skull. 

He braced his hands on the back of his chair, the upholstery soft and familiar beneath his palms. ‘Is that – Is he why you consider yourself married to your work?’ 

Sherlock tucked his hands in his pockets, the unapologetic gleam of his eyes focussed entirely on John. A different tension washed through the room. It was like breathing smoke, choking and addictive. John could almost taste it, and he found himself hypnotised as Sherlock began to move. 

Normally, he prowled through the flat, a tiger in his own territory. Now, each step seemed hesitant, as if he were afraid John might flee. A valid concern, because this felt like too close, too much, like they’d torn the veils away from everything they’d danced around for God knew how long. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, and part of John longed to back off. 

Except that had been his choice too often in the past. Not now. Not this time. He would not miss this chance. 

He would get his answers. 

‘If I said yes,’ Sherlock began, ‘that David’s to blame, what would you do?’ 

John stepped away from the armchair, shifting into Sherlock’s space as he jabbed a finger towards the door. ‘I am nothing like that – that dickhead. It wouldn’t be like that.’ 

‘How would it be?’ 

The same as it already was, but more. All the little parts of a relationship had slipped into place when they weren’t looking. All the compromises and the lines drawn in the sand; they had already been negotiated over the course of their friendship. This was the final piece, not the first step, but John couldn’t find the breath to put it into words. 

He could only act. 

Closing the last of the distance between them, he inhaled the scent of Sherlock’s shampoo. They were close enough that they shared each breath, the air hot and thick between them. Sherlock’s full lips parted, perfectly tempting, and John knew there was no going back. 

He paused, giving Sherlock one more chance to retreat. 

He didn’t take it. 

A kiss: warm and sweet, shy in a way John had not been for bloody decades. Still, this wasn’t his girlfriend of the moment, little more than a pleasant distraction. This was Sherlock: his lips and tongue, the faintest scrape of stubble and a soft, wonderful noise deep in his throat, like he had just solved the most complex case of all. 

John broke away, unable to retreat more than a fraction. How could he when his heart floated so high in his chest and giddy euphoria washed through him? ‘It could be like that,’ he murmured, his voice hoarse, ‘if you wanted?’ 

He heard the breath catch in Sherlock’s throat and watched the galaxies of his intellect whirl as he considered the possibilities. This – this was what it all came down to: Sherlock’s agreement. Doubt from him would be their undoing, and John tried not to shake as he waited. 

A few seconds twisted into an impossible eternity. 

At last, gentle colour graced Sherlock’s cheeks, and the light in his eyes was more than just curious. There was something else there, something far more precious. 

Yes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sherlock-Watson-Holmes for the idea. You're a star!
> 
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> 
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